


Nature of the Beast

by shadow_in_the_shade



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, F/M, Slow Burn, Underage - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-14
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-04-14 17:44:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4573812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadow_in_the_shade/pseuds/shadow_in_the_shade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Whistle Down the Wind" AU in which Sansa and the rest of her family never left Winterfell. In the wake of their mother's death Sansa and the younger children find a strange man hiding out in the godswood. Desperate for a miracle they believe him to be The Stranger himself come in answer to their prayers. </p>
<p>Elsewhere rumours are spreading of a dangerous man on the lose, suspected of child murder and escaping from prison. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>This is a slow burn Sandor/ Sansa romance which may be perceived as underage as Sansa is sixteen. It is largely based on the Andrew Lloyd Webber musical of "Whistle down the wind".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Nature of the Beast**

Afterwards, when it was all over, she would remember that day as the last one of her childhood. After the fires had died down and the first brave shoots of green were showing again in the Godswood, she would remember that last day of summer as though she were a tree, poised just on the edge of shedding its leaves.

Autumn followed fast on the back of all that happened, hurried into the castle by the smell of wood smoke and the winds that began to whip cold in the man’s absence. It would, within the space for a few months, seem like a dream that they had played and swum in the Godswood that day, a dream of another time and another her; one that she had known she would soon put behind her even then.

She had not long passed her sixteenth name day, and that morning she had felt herself caught in a doorway that had never jarred her so much before. Jon and Robb had ridden out with father and Theon, and the little ones had been left to play by themselves in the last of the summer sun. She was not a little one, not that she saw it, but she found herself left in charge of them more and more since their mother had died. It was awkward to Sansa who fluctuated between wanting to be that mother to the little ones that they were missing, and still being one of them – just.

And so she had told them off for being silly whilst she swam naked in the warm pools with them. She had shouted at Arya for splashing her and then splashed her back at least as hard. She had stood beneath the trees with earth between her toes, yelling at them all to come down whilst a part of her wanted to climb those trees herself.

She had been happy and she had been sad. She wished she could bring herself to cry for her mother. All the little ones had cried and it seemed to have helped them. Even Arya had cried. She could never decide if she was happy that they could seem so carefree, or if she was bitter – or jealous.

All the prettiest things she found she would take to her mother’s tomb in the crypt below Winterfell. Arya got cross with her about it; arguing that it was a waste of the beautiful thing to keep it down there in the dark. Sansa said that Arya’s objection was an insult to their mother’s memory. Arya said that so was Sansa’s existence, and so they fought about it ceaselessly.

She came to the Godswood to play where the old gods could see them. She tried to be as good as she could possibly be and tried, in the only ways she knew, to make the others better too. She prayed that the gods would see and give them what ease they could. Her other prayers – she thought of these as more _real_ prayers – she took to the sept. After dark when all the candles were lit, she could see the bright glass windows glowing in the dark and they called to her to go, to find her quiet and her peace. These days she could be hours there, praying to each of the seven, the Maiden and the Mother and the Crone to give her strength and show her the way. She prayed to the Warrior for her father and for Robb and for her half-brother Jon. She knew they were all suffering in their own way, in a way that was different from the women and the children – and that her father most of all would not speak of his sorrow, but she saw it hand heavy around his eyes, slowing his step and echoing after him in the slower steps of her brothers. She prayed to the Smith to keep their home strong, to protect all of Winterfell. She knew how much strength her mother had had, and she prayed to the Smith to lend some of it to her. She prayed to the Father to watch over the little ones; though she knew it was, to a great degree, a selfish prayer and that she did it so that she would not have to quite so much.

More and more she surprised herself by lingering as long as she did before the face of the Stranger. She had been afraid of him before, never even stopping at his niche as she made her rounds of the sept. She prayed to the Stranger to keep their mother safe because he alone knew where she was. She found herself taking comfort in his shadowed face where once he had only frightened her; comfort and also a strange fascination that was far from comforting in its confusion. He knew her deepest secret; the one she shared with nobody else – that in truth, she prayed for him to bring their mother back.

She was thinking about the Stranger now, as she waited for the children beneath the trees. The thoughts were strangely warm, like the last of the day’s sunlight on her face. She could almost feel him in the shadows, crouched down to frighten her and soothe that fright all at once. She shivered and it was almost a little bit delicious.

Her shiver made her blink and she looked around as the wind whispered louder; somehow as she had stood there, ignoring the world around her and yet very aware of the earth and the smell of the wood – it had gotten so late. The sky was turning red in the sunset and the shadows of the trees had all joined up. She could hear the little ones laughing up above and called them to come down in a tone that brooked no argument this time. As their chatter ceased and she waited for them to come down, a sound came to her out of the little low trees to her left. It made her arms prickle and the back of her neck stiffen as though ghostly fingers lingered centimetres from the skin there. A noise, like an animal, a _large_ animal, crouched low in the bushes where they had made their secret den.

She shouted then, ostensibly to the children, but loud enough to scare it away, whirling around and stamping her foot for emphasis. The bushes rustled, but she knew it was still there and she heard a noise more like a human gasp than an animal sound. She could hear the creature’s breathing now, frightened and trapped. She forced herself to stay calm.

The children dropped onto the floor next to her. She immediately told them to hush and was just trying to gather them to get out of there fast when Rickon let out a laughing sound and headed right towards the occupied bushes.

“Rickon no!” she shouted, but it was too late.

“No why?” Arya scowled, and Bran was interested now too.

“There’s something there!” she whispered loudly. This time she heard it move, saw the bushes shake, moving away. Now was the time she needed to take the children and run but instead she heard herself call –

“Is someone there? It’s alright, we won’t hurt you!”

The noises stopped and the leaves went still; too still. Sansa could almost hear her heart beating though it felt more like it had stopped.

“Let’s –” she started to say, starting to back away, but then Rickon took her hand and pulled her _towards_ instead of away;

“Come on!” he insisted, like it was obvious.

It was not the first time she had been astounded by Rickons’ dangerous attraction to what was wild and perilous, but it was perhaps the first time her instinct had shared that attraction. She let herself be led towards their den in the trees and behind her the others followed.

__x__

**I know, I stopped just before any interaction actually happened – I know very little has happened so far and I apologise for that – I just needed to get some background in before launching right in! Please bear with me for some extreme slow- burn sansan!**

**(I just realised _slow burn_ is a horrible phrase to use in relation to Sandor, ugh!)**


	2. Chapter 2

**2.**

 

They cornered the creature in the den they had made in the small trees. There was a spot they had found two winters back, where two fallen trees had twisted together to make the perfect little cave. It had seemed like a wonderland then, but now Sansa had to duck her head to get in the door the tree trunks had formed. The little ones fell in after her, but knowing they had come to the end of the chase they stopped still, staring and silent.

The creature had hunched itself into a corner, hugging the branches that seemed to hug it back. In the gathering gloom Sansa could see the whites of its eyes, and in the silence its ragged breathing was louder by far than any of theirs and it sounded pained. It stared at them, drifting out of focus; then its head rolled back and the eyes closed.

“It’s gone to sleep,” Bran said.

“Fainted,” Arya supplied.

“Dead!” Rickon yelled, almost hopefully.

“Shut up, all of you!” Sansa whispered loudly, not really knowing why she was whispering – “It’s not dead and it’s not an it –”

As they moved in closer they could make out the shape well enough;

“It’s just a man!” Rickon announced. He sounded disappointed.

“A _big_ man!” Arya added, almost impressed.

“However did he get here?” Sansa wondered aloud – “Look, he’s hurt.”

Arya was scrabbling in one of their tins of treasures and got out a candle and match; in its dim light they could see that the man’s hands were bloodstained, his garments strange and rough spun, mixed here and there with a mishmash of armour. He wore a hood which had slipped down, so that as the candle was moved further up they could see his face. Arya gasped gleefully and Sansa stifled a cry of horror. Bran said nothing but his eyes grew wide in the dark.

In the shadow and the firelight the man seemed to have only half a face.

Sansa stared and stared, her insides swirling with revulsion and fascination. The firelight painted what was left a scarred, ragged red, and the shadow made the ruin more grotesque. Half of the man’s face was burned away, lower down almost to the bone and it glistened wetly with dried blood making it all the more gruesome.

“It _is_ a monster!” Rickon positively perked up.

“He’s just hurt,” Bran said.

“He’s like the Stranger,” Sansa whispered in awe. “Remember – ever since mother died we’ve been praying for the gods to come help us out – I never thought they’d send the Stranger.”

It did not sound like madness to any of the others; and to Sansa, as soon as the words were out they settled in her heart as an unshakeable truth.

“We prayed so long for an answer,” she whispered reverentially – “We mustn’t deny it when it comes.”

“He’s wearing armour – like a knight,” Arya pointed out.

“And the hood of the Stranger,” Bran pointed out. They all suddenly took a step back as the bulk of the Man moved.

“The fuck ….” he groaned out, eyes opening slowly. “Get that fucking fire away from me –”

“Please Ser –” Sansa began, shooing Arya and her candle back, her eyes widening as she thought of the Stranger’s aversion to light, how much he was a thing of shadow and darkness. He blinked, looking at her, _just_ at her, Sansa thought, as though really seeing her, for a long time. He stared for what seemed like forever, his look becoming fixed, more focused. She started to feel strange herself beneath that stare.

“Not a _Ser,”_ he rasped, scowling.

“I _told_ you he was the Stranger,” Bran whispered to Arya behind them, as though this proved it. Arya took a gentle swipe at him.

“How is it that you come to be in our Godswood?” Sansa pressed. The Man looked around him, scowling harder –

“Fucked if I know –” he started to cough, spat on the ground – “You got any wine? Food maybe? It’s hard work being this close to death so long.”

Sansa’s eyes widened –

“Isn’t it – isn’t it what you do?”

“What? Death? Aye girl, it’s the business I’m in and that’s for sure – but I didn’t do what they said, and you can tell them to piss on that.”

In truth Sansa only heard the first part of all he said and, with her suspicions confirmed, she did not feel a need to understand the last part. She reached out impulsively and touched the filthy hand that rested against the ground –

“We’re glad you’re here,” she said – “We’ve prayed for you –”

“Girl, your mouth is open but all I hear is chirping. Like a bloody little bird aren’t you? Get me some fucking wine.”

“We don’t have wine – but there’s water in the pools – Arya, go on!” Sansa waved her away.

“Why me?”

“Take Rickon and Bran too then!”

The little ones went off grumbling. Sansa wondered at her boldness to stay alone with the Strangest Man of all but somehow, despite the frightening otherworldliness of him, she felt curiously safe.

“Where am I?” he asked.

“You’re safe now,” she nodded – “That’s all that matters. We’ll look after you – we’ll make you well again, truly, you’re safe with us.”

“Will you –” he looked at her more carefully now. “Will you not tell the adults – there _are_ adults, am I right?”

“They’ve gone out for the day,” she said – “But I won’t tell, I swear. I’ll make the others swear as well. We won’t let anyone know you’re here – and we’ll come back later with food and – things.”

The Man stared at her, at the brightness in her eyes and the smile playing round her lips. He felt her soft hands, two of them clasping one of his and had to turn his face away. The noise of the children coming back suddenly seemed terribly loud.

“We brought water!” Bran said.

“We heard horses,” Arya added – “Father and the others are back”.

“We have to go,” Sansa said, all but ignoring all of them, patting The Man’s hands as she rose from her knees – “I’ll come back after supper with the rest.”

The little ones whispering excitedly, she ushered them out of the den, Arya pushing the water bowl into The Man’s hands that seemed to grasp for something the moment Sansa pulled away. Arya could only assume it was the water.

The Man watched the children leave, trying to let these new events settle in his head. Now that he was awake and conscious, he felt near dead with thirst. But he watched the bushes move in their wake for a long time before he drank. He thought of the older girl, the pretty one with the sweet voice, the little bird; he thought of how soft her hands had been, how tenderly the had held his and a wetness that was not water cut down his face, a feeling running with it that he had not known in a long time. Nor did he know, at all, what to do with such a feeling.

When the Godswood was still, he drank the water fast. Then when he choked on it he drank slowly until, for the first time since he could remember, he felt almost human again. But more refreshing still was that girl’s voice, the sweet softness of her being and the way she had looked at him with those innocent eyes. When he closed his eyes and took a deep breath her image still did not go away, nor long after the last of the night’s dark had fallen.

__x__

**I’m curious who knows the plot of Whistle Down The Wind and can guess where this is going! I’m not sure what’s worse – knowing or not knowing! Either way, these two may start to get cute in the next chapter! :-)**


	3. Chapter 3

That night, Ned Stark was surprised into almost smiling by the way his daughter smiled at him, how she stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. She had been so silent since her mother died, so polite and sweet – that and nothing else. Just _good,_ trying her hardest, he knew, at the same time with an air of gentle guilt about her that he could not begin to understand.

It was his own guilty feeling to know that he _never_ understood her. He had supposed at first that it was simply because she was a girl, but then Arya had posed so little mystery to him whatsoever that he had been forced to re-evaluate. Sansa was so like her mother; Ned tried not to always make that obvious comparison, but it seemed to him that it made itself so easily.

Tonight was different though. There was a lightness in her step he had not seen before- or not in many weeks. Lightness like a sunbeam that went all the way to her eyes and when her smile flickered in that secretive way he found himself stepping back thinking _by all the gods when did she grow up and how did I never notice it?_

And then the little ones too had their secretive smiles – that were far less secretive than hers. Ned smiled himself to see them, thinking of their innocence yet; how small their secrets were and how big – even he remembered – these small intrigues always did seem at the time.

She was less time in the sept that night as well, and for sure the children knew the cause of it. They were good though, and never let their whisperings be overheard.

Sansa almost danced through her prayers that night and when her song lifted up, up through the arches and to the sky, she was sure that she lifted with it. That night she felt like she could fly. _Little bird,_ he had said, and it had to be true, for she had grown a pair of wings so big and bright that she could all but see them, feel them flutter and stir up the air.

When she reached the Stranger’s statue she gave him a smile that was almost a wink. She offered him all of her promises that night, every assurance that she would keep him safe and take good care of him. For the first time she understood why Arya and the boys talked so often and excitedly about becoming knights; she could see herself now, shining, donning armour to protect Him, to defend him if need be, from all the world.

She started her campaign at supper. She had never been good at subterfuge but Arya and Jeyne helped her to shift food around under the table, for which assistance she hissed fervent assurances to Jeyne that they would let her in on the secret.

When she managed to add a flagon of wine to her stash, Sansa felt sure that she would never feel more wicked than she did at that moment. Then she squirreled bandages, and just a little milk of the poppy from behind the Maester’s back, and had to re-evaluate her own self ultimatum all over again in the space of a mere half hour.

Arya caught her slipping out of the side tower door, cloaked with just a lantern for the dark. _Obviously_ it was Arya. Sansa supposed that at least she should be grateful it was not one of the adults. Arya just begged to come with her and pouted when Sansa put her foot down. She promised Arya that they could all visit The Man tomorrow and moved on, a little unsure as to quite why she was so eager to go alone – or so sure that she would be safe. Arya gave her a cheery grin as she left that told her she’d find sheep shift in her bed tonight for this, but on this particular night she could not begin to care.

The Man had been dozing, but he awoke when he heard her rustling through the trees.

“It’s just me,” she whispered, though he had known already. He did not know how he knew; just that he _had_ known it would be her. His eyes followed her careful movements as she put the lantern on the ground as far away from him as she could manage. She saw the approval in his eyes and her heart swelled bigger, she supposed, than it should have.

“I had to bring it – to see my way,” she offered, apologetically – “I know you don’t like light.”

“It’s not the light –” he began, and stopped. It occurred to him that she was clearly under some misconception as to who he was, and this could only work in his favour. He supposed it might be prudent to be a little careful – let her think what she did if he could make use of it.

“You brought wine?”

“And food-” she began, holding it all out, but he was into the wine before she could go on, drinking very like a human man and a desperate one too.

“Thank fuck for that,” he breathed when he was done, wiping his mouth with the back of a hand. She looked shocked and he laughed softly – “You never heard a curse before girl?”

She blushed. She remembered her stories – when the gods visited men it always had been in human guise themselves. She tried not to watch him simultaneously eat and rifle through the food; she knew she would not be able to keep the disgust from her face and it would be so rude of her not to do so. She remembered that he was hungry and in trouble and silently excused his manners.

“You come here all on your own?” he asked her finally, when everything that could be eaten had been eaten. She nodded. She never took those big wondering eyes off of him, he noticed – he was beginning to be unnerved by it. People had stared at him enough and she was looking at him like a lady to a lord. It made no sense. It was some gentle mockery perhaps, or maybe she was simple – that seemed more likely, he supposed.

“You shouldn’t have.”

“But I’m safe with you, aren’t I?” He frowned at her, unsure how anyone could be so trusting, strangely afraid for her for being so.

“Girl –” he rasped, taking hold of her arm and yanking her towards him – “Do I _look_ safe?”

She opened her mouth and closed it again startled, her heartbeat racing.

“No pretty answer for that, little bird? I’m not _safe,”_ he sneered – “You can get that idea out of your head right now. Look –” For the first time, obtusely, she looked away – “Look at me!” he growled, shaking her, but almost gently, she was so small, seemingly so fragile – “See this? This face? You think these hands couldn’t tear you apart? and this –” he gripped her harder, gesturing his armour – “Not all of this blood is mine”.

She looked back at him, her eyes wide, but the fear that flared in them was brief and there was something else there too, she maybe did not even recognise herself, something that was not fear at all and he was surprised to see something stubborn and certain settle into her lips.

“You – won’t hurt me,” she said. It was not even a question; even she had thought it was going to be. He grimaced at her decisiveness, wanting to shout at her, to deny it. He looked into her clear, trusting eyes and knew with gut-plummeting certainty that she was right. He let go of her suddenly, all the fight going out of him in the face of her fierce gentleness.

“Fuck,” he spat, unwilling to let out the _no little bird, I won’t hurt you_ that hovered brightly on his lips and unable to argue with her either.

“Go,” he sighed, tired and confused – “Fly away little bird, go on.”

It came out more tenderly by far than he had meant it to. She saw it and smiled –

“I’ll come back tomorrow,” she said, turning, and then her light was gone and the Godswood was dark once again.

__x__

 

**Iiit – went all Blackwater. It always goes all Blackwater. These two. God damn. :-)**


	4. Chapter 4

The next morning brought with it surprise, on top of all the surprises of the previous day, when their father and the boys came home with six dire wolf pups.

To Sansa however it was not so strange; in fact it had the feeling to her of something she had almost been expecting – only without exactly knowing it would happen. When she whispered her understanding to the children it seemed obvious to them as well – that the pups had been saved from near death and it could only have been The Stranger himself who had saved them. Saved them for the children in an expression of gratitude for all they had done so far.

The children had nodded at this wisely and with wide eyed comprehension, falling into a contemplative, almost reverential silence that was broken only when Rickon announced that he was going to call his wolf Shaggydog.

“You can’t call him Shaggydog!” Bran objected, louder than usual – “It’s silly. You sound like a toddler!”

“Leave him alone Bran, he _is_ a toddler!” Sansa intervened.

Rickon stuck his tongue out at Bran complacently.

Arya was already rolling around on the floor with her wolf, getting dust and fur in her dress and laughing.

“Mine’s called Nymeria,” she announced. Sansa sighed; of course it was. She looked at her own little wolf and the pup looked back trustingly. She was the smallest and sweetest, and Sansa had known she was hers from first glance. Arya hooted in predictable derision when  she said when would call hers Lady. Lady thumped the floor with her tail happily as though approving the decision. Sansa scooped her up and hugged her; she was such a little soft ball of fur.

“What about you Bran?” she asked gently, daring to be ill mannered enough as to rub her cheek against the little beast’s soft head – “What are you going to call yours?”

“I don’t know,” Bran looked so intensely thoughtful it made Sansa want to laugh. She made herself not though, so as not to hurt his feelings – “Maybe Ghost.”

“You can’t,” their brother said, clomping in with his own pup in arms – “Mine’s called Ghost. Just look at him.”

Jon showed them all his wolf with more than usual pride. They all had to admit that with that colouring his wolf had the better claim to the name. Soon Jon and Ghost were rolling on the floor with Arya and Nymeria. Sansa watched them with a sigh, wondering if she was wicked for the huge part of her that was impatient for Jon to go so that the rest of them could slope off to the Godswood.

Finally Jon heard Robb calling him and went, scrubbing Arya on the head on the way out. The children all fell silent as though on some unspoken signal.

“Come on,” Sansa nodded. “We’ll take the pups”.

Sansa was already ready, so was Arya; both of them having pilfered enough food at breakfast and with such growing ease that Sansa was beginning to feel like a criminal genius. The girls led the way, wolves in arms, with Rickon trailing behind, half carrying Shaggydog and half carried by him it seemed, for the wolf and the boy were not so far off in size.

When they reached their wooded cave, The Man was awake and testing the space. In the middle it was just high enough for him to stand and Sansa noticed that he had tried to bandage the scratches on his arms and neck.

“You should let me do that,” she said.

“What the fuck are those?” he gave back by way of greeting.

“They’re ours!”

“Father gave them to us.”

“They were going to die!”

All the children started talking at once. The Man sat down heavily, beneath the onslaught of little voices.

“You saved them for us didn’t you Ser?” Sansa asked, closer, more gently, confidentially knowing. He looked at her oddly and did not reply. In the silence she gave him the food they had collected and noticed with approval that he ate this time with far greater manners than before. He watched the pups warily and eventually nodded –

“Dire wolves,” he said “Heard they could kill a man, let alone a child. Starks, aren’t you?”

“That’s right,” she nodded, inexplicably pleased that he had put this together – “I’m Sansa Stark, this is my sister Arya, my brothers Bran and Rickon –”

“Girl, stop before you give me a bloody curtsey. Vicious beasts I heard – those. You kids know what you’re doing?”

“They’re just little pups,” Bran said.

“They won’t hurt us – look –” Sansa began, beginning to put her wolf in the Stranger’s lap.

“Girl, you have a persistent and worrying belief that things will not hurt you. It’s going to get you in trouble – what are you – no, don’t do that I –”

Lady climbed up his chest, resolutely, tail wagging, and licked him in the face. He grimaced but could not stop from cracking a smile – “Ah well, they’re not the only things get called vicious without reason.”

“There’s reason,” Arya glared, fiercely, trying to make Nymeria look fierce too – “They _could_ kill a man. They have done. It’s only _Lady_ who’s so soppy.” Nymeria licked her hand then sat beside her all but grinning, forgetting to put her tongue back in.

Before much longer Bran and Rickon had scurried off with their wolves to play.

“Will you let me re-do those bandages?” Sansa asked.

“You know what you’re doing?”

“I can do it better than that.” She was already unwrapping the rags from his arm before he could protest further.

“Ouch,” Arya peered in close – “That looks nasty – you should burn that – Father says those kind of wounds need cauterised.” She looked smug at pronouncing the word. The Man jerked away from her, Sansa slapped her with a butterfly of a backhand blow;

“Not nice Arya! Why don’t you go play with the boys?”

“I don’t _want_ to play with the boys!”

“No –” Sansa thinned her lips, then smiled – “But your wolf does. Why don’t you go follow her?”

Nymeria was already halfway out the bushes, leaving Arya no choice but to follow her.

“I’m sorry about her,” Sansa said when she was gone.

“One in every family,” The Man shrugged – “You’ve not seen anything – ow!” Sansa had poured a little wine over his arm – “That hurt!”

“If you’d stay still it wouldn’t hurt as much!”

“You could have warned me – hey – you brought wine?

“It’s for your _arm.”_ She looked at him sternly. He laughed, reached out to her, his fingers lightly brushed the side of her face, touched the tips of the smile she gave him back. His fingers trembled and fell. Sansa felt a blush in her that reddened her cheeks and ran all down her boy, a curious, tickling, slowly spreading warmth. She looked down, tied the fresh bandage firmly.

“There!” She looked back up brightly – “Does that feel better? Tomorrow I’ll bring you clothes that don’t –” she checked herself, never wanting to be rude – “Fresh clothes,” she amended.

“And where on earth will you find my size do you think? Are you magic, little bird?”

“I can make them,” she said, stubbornly – “I’m ever so good. You’ll see.”

“Why are you doing this for me?” he took hold of her wrist. This time instead of pulling away she leaned in a little; she didn’t really know why.

“I prayed for you,” she almost whispered – “I prayed for you so long and now you’re here. I’ll look after you forever – if you need me.”

“Girl I –” there was only so long he could take her honest blue eyed gaze – “I don’t think I am who you think I am.”

“You need me, don’t you?” She frowned.

His mouth worked around the difficulty of admitting it –

“….yes,” he said finally. It sounded truer on more levels than he meant it.

“You _are_ what I prayed for. I just know that you are.”

She looked so happy he could not argue with her again. And she was leaning in so close now, he could smell the air she breathed, feel her hair tickle his face. Her lips were so close to his and his hand had moved up her arm.

A crashing sound in the bushes and the voices of the children shouting –

“Sansa! Sansa come quickly! They’re here!”

She only had time to break away and stare at the Man wildly, apologetically, before the children burst back in to lead her off. As they ran back through the Godswood they explained –

“It’s the people – the group father mentioned, some of his men who are coming to stay!”

Sansa remembered; she had forgotten all about it. Something about her father wanting to improve relations with his neighbours, to better get to know the other powerful families in the north. When she came out into the yard the place was full of horses, men milling around and more rising in through the gates. It was a shock after the quiet of the Godswood but Sansa remembered her manners and smiled to welcome them.

Looking around she saw one young man rein his horse in tight. He was more impressive than the others and, Sansa could not help but notice, attractive. His eyes were bright with merriment and he looked like the kind of young man to whom smiles came easily. And he was clearly in charge to some degree. When he leapt with all the agility of fresh energetic youth from his horse Sansa was there to welcome him.

“Lady Sansa,” he smiled, a cheery smile, almost ear to ear, as though he had been hearing about her for ages and had struggled to wait to meet her. He took her hand like a lord to a lady and lifted it to his lips – “The descriptions did not do you justice.”

Sansa could not help the fluttering smile that flickered around her lips in return – he was obvious but it hardly mattered, it resonated so of the stories she loved and she could not for all the world fail to play her part in a moment out of a story. She even blushed –

“Thank you my lord – I –”

Her father approached then with another man in tow. They were both smiling but the newcomer’s smile did not reach his eyes. Though he seemed, to all appearances, a gentleman, there was something flinty in those eyes and worse – something sharp that Sansa did not like.

“Roose Bolton, at your service My Lady,” he inclined his head to her minutely – “And this –” he gestured the smiling young man who had just let go of her hand – “Is my son, Ramsay.”

__x__

**Dun dun DUN!**

**How’s that for a cliffhanger? Plot twist anyone? :-) I’ve never written Ramsay before and I have to confess that I’m oddly looking forward to it. I’ve spent about a week wondering who to make the villain of this piece and then it was so obvious I’m hitting myself. Just in case anyone’s worried though - absolutely NOTHING is gonna happen like the badness of season 5. :-)**


	5. Chapter 5

Winterfell was a hive of activity that day. It was both exciting and tiresome; ill-timed and in the way, Sansa thought once the initial novelty of having visitors had worn off. Her father had charged her with what quickly became the rather onerous task of showing the Bolton boy around and he had done it in a way which made her instantly suspicious.

And then Ramsay himself, on closer inspection, did not one bit live up to that early expectation of courtesy and charm. Indeed as soon as she found herself alone with him she found herself feeling excruciatingly uneasy and on her guard. She supposed that it was only right and probably good of her to feel this way around a man who was not her father or brothers but…she could not help thinking of The Man in the Godswood and how little she felt afraid in his presence. Indeed she felt with him as safe as she was inexplicably excited. The comparisons between the two men ran on in her head until she was afraid her thoughts were growing quite out of control. The man was as alarming to all appearances as Ramsay was attractive, as full of scowls as the other was of smiles. And yet she trusted those scowls where the smiles could never convince. She suspected there was more honesty, more even of some true nobility in the Man’s gruff rudeness than in all of her guest’s cut glass courtesies.

And then, come around midday, she began to resent and agonise over her inability to get back to her charge. She thought of him, sat there, with nothing to do, perhaps waiting for her all day to bring food and drink and company. In the end she came as close as she ever could to being rude in begging a reprieve from her duties of hospitality, for reasons she refused to give.

It was so much later than she had wanted it to be; she wanted to have been able to go to him by midday at the latest but it was almost evening by the time she got away, too long since she had seen him last and she ran, as soon as she could do so without being seen, through the Godswood , in more of a panic than she had realised she had been for the last few hours. The sun was thinking about setting and the sky was a warning red, trickles of the last light falling between the shadows of trees, staining the ground like a prophecy. When she reached the den in the trees, bursting through the branches, she was struck breathless and suddenly cold with fear to find the place empty. No amount of telling herself to calm down or internally chiding herself for being silly and too fast to panic could stop the tears leaping straight in her eyes. They stung her with the effort of blinking back.

He was gone! Nothing left to suggest he had ever been here beyond the rags and vessels she had left for food and some battered pieces of armour. She supposed she was silly for imagining he _would_ just stay, that he had nowhere better to be and no plan of survival of his own. But she had hoped against hope, not even quite knowing why, that he would stay, at least for a while. More, impossible though it was, she felt a space open up in her chest as though she could possibly miss him already. She swallowed back a sob and a tear ran silently down her cheek and into her mouth. She heard a noise of footsteps in the woods beyond and started suddenly.

Heavily she rose to leave the cave, brushed hard at her eyes and took a deep breath. As she stood up straight coming out of the den she walked straight into a solid wall of human that grabbed her arms to steady her with a gentleness astounding in such strength.

“Woah girl, take it easy there.”

“You –” she looked up straight into The Stranger’s eyes. They were kind eyes, she noticed in this better light outside of the close trees, almost golden in the sunlight where fear and darkness had made them almost black before – “You’re still here. I thought you had –” she gestured limply, vaguely, but she could not keep the light from her eyes or the smile from her lips. He frowned at her steadily, brushed a thumb across her cheek like the brush of a leaf.

“You were crying,” he said; he sounded bewildered. Indeed he had never seen anyone look so pleased to see him in his life and was rather unsure what to do with that.

“No I –”

“Don’t lie, girl.”

“I –” she winced at herself – “I thought you’d gone”. She had been afraid it was too much of an admission of something to say at first; certainly it was too much as an explanation of why she had been crying. He looked at her more curiously still, as though her answer made no sense, and she moved on hurriedly –

“Where were you?”

“Safe as your nest is little bird, I can’t really stay there all day – went and washed off in one of those pools you have –”

She seemed to notice for the first time that he was only wearing his shirt and trousers and that he was, truly, a little damp still. For some reason it flustered her and she took a little step back. He let go of her arm. She could feel herself blushing and looked away.

“As though you haven’t been wrinkling that little nose up at the smell of me,” he grunted -   “Where were you all day anyway?”

She was almost relieved to be able to apologise as hard as she did and babble her way through everything that had happened.

“People?” He looked at her, wary, concerned, almost ready to run – “What people?”

“They’re northmen,” she realised he thought they were here for him and explained as best she could – “Allies of father’s that he’s not seen for a long time, Boltons, Karstarks – some of the other families –” she could see his relief like a huge sigh he did not quite make and wanted desperately to ask who he did _not_ want it to be.

“Still,” he said thoughtfully, when the relief had died down – “It’s not good news them being here – if they come in here –”

“I’ll keep them away. I swear. I’ll keep you safe, I promised.”

“Like today? Girl I’d have starved away if it wasn’t for your brothers.”

“Bran was here?”

“Aye, and the little one. They said –” he scowled and stopped, looking aslant at her.

“Said what?”

“They said you were busy with a young man”. His eyes narrowed ever so slightly and she felt strange at feeling so pleased to see him jealous, if that was what it was.

“Ramsay Bolton,” she nodded – “I think –” she had been pondering it all day and now almost entirely knew that she was right – “I think maybe father might want to marry me to him.”

The Man made a grunting sound;

“And is that what you want?” He tried to keep his voice neutral, but it came out much more as an accusation.

“No!” she said quickly, and when it came out of her she knew for sure that it was true. It was often like that, she thought; that she only realised her own mind when she had already spoken what came naturally –

“No – I don’t. I really don’t.”

“Well –” he looked back at her, almost smiling before he realised there was nothing not incriminating that he could say to this.

“I’ll do better now,” she smiled and this time she put her hand on his arm, looking up at him steadily – “I promise. I’ll take better care of you than anything – I don’t want –” she shook her head – “I don’t know what I want.”

“I can see that.”  He could see something else too, in the way she looked at him now, something that struck him more sweetly than he had ever been struck. He took her chin so gently on the edge of two fingers, and she – strange girl, did not move away. It was not even so much that she moved forward but that it suddenly became obvious that there was less air between them. He could feel her little heart beating, a bird within a bird. There was a breathtaking lack of disgust in her eyes and when he kissed her she did not pull away.

It was the littlest, tenderest kiss he could have possibly experienced or found in himself to give to her, and he supposed later that if he had died at that moment it was the happiest he could ever have gone. That tentative gentle little thing, barely the beginning of a kiss but her lips had moved back and when she pulled away it was clearly in a daze. Her eyes were shining and her smile was as big as if that sweet little kiss had been all and everything – as far as she had ever imagined. He could feel the joy and the way her heart was smiling radiating off her in waves. There were autumn leaves hiding in her hair; he picked them out and she let out a little of her joy in a laugh.

Then her blushes started and she was pressing the food parcels she had brought upon him, whispering her assurances that she would be back tomorrow. He was glad beneath the sadness of seeing her go that she _did_ go then – he had no idea what he would have done otherwise, but he was not sure he had ever smiled as dreamily in his life as when he ducked back into the den within the trees.

As for Sansa, she all but danced back through the trees, carried on the little autumn winds that stirred the leaves around her feet, sunset in her eyes, veiling her blushes. She couldn’t think and it was wonderful, she didn’t need to think to know that she was happier in those moments than she had ever been. It felt as though she had been waiting for this feeling the whole of her life, as though, finally, the song of her life had really and beautifully begun.

__x__

 

**I’m so sorry this update has been so long in coming – I was away with family and that kills my ability to write for the longest time! Won’t be nearly so long next time I promise!! :-)**


	6. Chapter 6

**6.**

He wakes in the woods, in the crackle of leaves, suddenly, shockingly, with a surge of sudden feeling so powerful and violent that it shakes him – _I’ll kill him if he hurts her!_ But kill who and why he does not quite know, even less he knows why he would even think it so violently. He feels hot with the knowledge of who the _she_ is. He cannot think, _should not_ think he supposes, if it is going to be a thought like this.

He is not sure how he has slept or why. He has been trying so hard to try and keep track of the days and nights but they all seem to run into one another all the same. Now he finds that it is beginning to get dark and it was light when he last remembers being awake. There are the sounds of night creatures creeping in the undergrowth and the smell of fires being lit in the courtyard beyond. He can smell any fire, even a night light from so far away. He hears voices too, drifting faintly on the air, not enough to catch any words but enough to know there are more people here than there were.

He tries to lose the formidable sense of danger he feels, to shake it off like a dog would shake off water. But he cannot shake off danger any more than a dog could lose that sense.

He feels uncomfortably as though he must now venture out of the safe haven of the Godswood. He wishes he knew why. Perhaps because he feels that the danger which is imminent is a danger more to her than to himself. _Her._ He wonders how this has happened. How is it he would go to lengths for a girl he has known for such a short time that he would not go to for himself?

He was not built for slinking through trees and then the buildings on the outskirts of the main keep, but he finds his senses of danger and smell go a large way towards making up for his bulk. He is soon near the kennels where he can hear from the movements within that the dogs are tensing, pricking their ears up. They are attuned to his presence the same way he is to theirs. He whispers a calm and very quiet _hush_ through the boards as he passes and they do. Well he has always been better with animals than with people.

From his shadows he can see two men, one of them talking to the dogs in a crooning voice. This one is damnably good looking and perhaps this is the first reason he feels an instinctive distrust, even fear that he would never normally feel towards anyone who speaks kindly to his animals. It is the first reason, but it is far from the last.

“She’s not bad though is she?” he is saying and for some reason The Man finds himself bristling at that smiling off hand tone. His companion replies with something the man cannot quite hear, his tone more standard, less bright and brash and ringing. The first speaker laughs filthily and the clear voice rings out again.

“Pretty little thing aye, I might just do that.”

It is the tone one might use when one is referring to a good dog but for some reason the man in the shadows finds himself not only certain that he is _not_ referring to a dog but certain that the girl in question might be better described as  a bird. He finds himself having to repress a growl at hearing someone speak of her so condescendingly. She – he closes his eyes – she deserves nothing but reverence. He wants to laugh. He barely believes in reverence or in gods, yet here he is ready to worship like a faithful dog at her shrine.

He has to move on, to move fast through the shadows, to flatten himself panting at the base of a tower as far as he can easily and quickly get from these bad people.

And what is he, he thinks. He slides down into a crouch, back against the stone. Another bad person and yet she in all her sweet beauty and innocence thinks he is one of her gods. It makes him want to bark laughter to the moon. His eyes roll upwards half white themselves to see that same moon which is so very bright, unhelpful to him tonight. It shortens the shadows and threatens him. He thinks about those shadows, how comforting they are. They hide him and he feels closer to good here. It is all so strange. He wonders if there is a god of shadows and finds himself thinking of the Stranger’s shrouded face. He feels a manic sense of weird amusement _maybe I should pray after all and to myself! Maybe – could it be she could be right; we could all be gods in the light of this moon._

He exhales deeply. Some way above him he hears a casement thrown open, wood clattering on stone. He feels that little square of light reaching down to him like tender hands and shifts still more into the dark. But the tenderness will not leave him be, as from above he hears two young voices lifted in melodic song, warm like the light and more soothing. A simple smiling song, each girl enjoying and moving off the cadence of the other girl’s voice, holding their song out to the evening air for it to fly free.

He hears laughter from within, the sound of the shutters being moved, a girl’s voice from further inside that he cannot quite hear. he hears the reply clearly enough, from right by the open window –

“Oh Jeyne –” so tenderly chastising – “How can you sleep on a night like this – such a moon Jeyne come and see!”

He stops, still as the stone at his back, heart held tight in his throat. It is her voice; rich and lilting, warm and rustling as summer grass. She is right above him he knows, surely leaning on the grey stone of the windowsill and looking out into the silver night. He thinks of her bare arms on the stone and trembles. He hears her friend’s voice grumbling, good natured but sleepy, coming closer to the window but it is Sansa who carries on speaking.

“Isn’t it beautiful? I feel – I feel so happy Jeyne!”

“I don’t think it’s the moon making you feel like that Sansa.”

He can hear the smile in the girl – Jeyne’s – voice and Sansa laughs, lowly, warm and soft, not like the tinkling glass laugh he has come to associate with young girls.

“You might be right.” Then both girls laugh.

“He is handsome though isn’t he?” Jeyne is still smiling he can hear it.

“Handsome?” She sounds surprised – “I didn’t think of it like that – I suppose –”

“I meant Ramsay Bolton” Jeyne’s voice is on the brink of a laugh knowing she has caught her friend out – “You’re blushing!”

“No I’m not – I –” she laughs, a little embarrassed – “I suppose he is – but I wasn’t thinking of him – I –” she whispers something, doubtless close into her friend’s ear that the man cannot catch. Jeyne whispers something back.

“I don’t know –“  
 Sansa says musingly – “I – I suppose I might. He is so – his eyes are so sad and he is so gentle Jeyne, if you only knew how good he is. I don’t think there could be anyone as good.”  


“But that face – you said –”

“I know what I said. But it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter a bit – he – he –”

Both girls laugh awkwardly at the inability of expression.

“You like him.”

“Yes.” She says simply and sighs deeply.

“Come to bed”

“I will, I will – in a moment. I want to look at the moon again. It almost – sings to me. The sky is so clear tonight I feel I could just put out my arms and fly off out of the window into the air. I can almost feel myself flying.”

“Come to bed. Don’t just jump out the window.”

The Man feels himself grow warm, flushing as though he has listened in on something far too intimate, looked into a window leading to her heart. He feels as bad as if he had been watching them undress. At the same time he cannot bring himself to leave out of a vague fear that the little bird might really try to fly. He hears a last little sigh from above –

“ _Little bird_ he said” she murmurs dreamily and he hears the scrape of wood on stone and the shutters being closed. The Man finds himself all but fleeing back to his place in the woods, something so terrifying behind him that he cannot begin to think about it.

__x__

**I feel sooo bad about how long this has been since the last update! I wanted to keep the whole thing from Sansa’s POV but it just blocked me, I knew I wanted to do a Sandor chapter really. Also I’m sorry to anyone who notices how much of this I pinched from _War and Peace,_ I just felt the whole wanting to fly, gazing at the sky thing worked so well for Sansa!**

**I also offer up this chapter with a dedication and apology to _sassyeggs_ who is sooo patient with me, you always bring me back to Sansan thankyou! :-)**


	7. Chapter 7

**Trigger warning: One not at all graphic rape attempt from Ramsay-fuckwit-Bolton, but it goes nowhere.**

**7.**

_But isn’t it love, then?_ she asks herself on waking – _and if it’s love, it can’t be wrong._ She is not sure; the dream was so strange, so frightening and exciting. She was walking through the autumn leaves, a lonely road but golden and red in the late afternoon light. The shadows were long and the trees were comforting, half dressed with crimson and gold, all the colours of the sunset caught in the branches of the trees and the fallen leaves beneath her feet. And the longest shadow of all was the one coming over from the brow of the hill, the shadow of a man standing still in his cloak, a silhouette against the sky. She should have been afraid. She always thought she would be to see the Stranger in a dream like this, his shadow reaching for her.

But it is not like she imagined. His reach seems tempting, warm somehow. She wants to go into his arms, to reach back, to look beneath the hood of the cloak. Perhaps it would be rude to look, a little voice calls to her from the waking world, reminding her about manners, but it does not seem important in the dream. But she does not look; she does not need to, not this time. It does not matter what he looks like, she is still reaching, singing for the Stranger, begging for his kiss.

But it is not the cold kiss of death she wakes with on her lips, just a feel of incredible warmth and she feels herself blushing, a ticklish warmth around her thighs and she cannot look around her into the light of morning for embarrassment at such feelings. She thinks of the Man in the Godswood and feels flushed, shivering in the warm morning but not for cold.

She holds the dream, or the feeling of the dream close to her as she dresses that morning; she holds it to her as she goes down to breakfast. She holds it to her heart so close like a secret, another secret to treasure. She feels like a dragon hoarding secrets, each one a jewel, until they spill out of her in a glittering rainbow, and she a chest that cannot stay closed. She positively screams at Arya when she asks her why she’s blushing and starts talking loudly about how _Sansa’s been dreaming about Boys!_ She screams at Arya to _shut up shut up shut up!_ which she supposes, upon heated reflection was not the way to handle a denial of the accusation. It was a boringly typical one for her sister to throw, after all.

The little ones are laughing along with Arya, and Sansa feels a mortification that she wishes would return to her with all its burning silliness just a  moment later when she looks down the table and sees Ramsay grinning at her in a predatorily knowing way. Even Arya with her eagle eyes sees him lean forward, sees Sansa lean back, sees the wash of cold go through her that extends even to her and Arya stops laughing, her lips twitches, she shoots Ramsay the glare of dislike that Sansa dares not give him and actually twitches her lips in a grimace of apology towards her sister.

They never _speak_ apologies after these fights. But they both know it is all forgiven when they conglomerate in an archway after breakfast with the little ones to compare scavengings. Sansa cannot help but feel a pride in her siblings for continuing to help wholeheartedly with their intrigue long after the point where most of their games have grown cold. She can see from the blaze in Rickons eyes that it is not just a game, in Bran’s solemn smile that is almost reverential when he produces his offerings of apples and bread for the stranger. Even Arya is less flip than usual and she finds herself smiling at them all with that faint affection that can only stem from a long and deep seated love.

“Are we going now?” Arya says.

“I have a _thing_ I want to give him,” Rickon adds with mysterious importance.

“Yes come on let’s –” Sansa begins, but at that point Ramsay and his father walk past with a few of their people and they give the children such a  look of suspicious interest that the words crackle and fade on Sansa’s tongue.

“I better go alone,” she whispers when they have passed.

“But I want –” Rickon begins. Bran hushes him.

“You can all come later” Sansa decides – “I don’t –” she does not want to say that she does not trust these people, it seems rude and such suspicion is not natural either but –

“Me neither,” Arya helps her out – “I don’t trust them one bit.”

Sansa smiles. She does not suppose she could ever keep count on her fingers of the number of times a day she and Arya hate each other and make it up again. She gathers up all their things into her basket, they nod at each other like conspirators and separate.

Outside and in the clear summer sun she starts to relax again. The strangeness of her dream is beginning to melt away with increased wakefulness and sunlight and she supposes the Boltons won’t be here forever. She is not even thinking about them by the time she approaches the last tower towards the Godswood. She is thinking about the man again; the sadness and beauty in his eyes. She has never perceived anyone to have such a perfect soul and it seems to her that even he does not see it. She wonders how a god can doubt himself and is just deciding to ask him –

“Lady Sansa.”

Ramsay Bolton swings out from behind the tower, grinning; it seems to Sansa as though it is with sharp teeth in the light, striped with shadows from the brickwork. She struggles with what she is sure must be an irrational surge of fear and nods at him as politely as she can manage in return;

“My lord”.

“You come this way every morning, lady Sansa.”

That he makes it a statement rather than a question unnerves her more than she can say, suddenly everything that relaxed in her since breakfast tenses again tightly.

“You have been watching me.”

She means to make it a question, it would have been more polite to do so, but his tone affects her and in her defensiveness she matches it.

“Who wouldn’t. You seemed very – _happy_ at breakfast Sansa –” he makes it sound dirty, or like an accusation, she cannot tell and does not really want to – “Was your sister right?”

“I –” she stammers “I don’t –“

“Don’t worry,” he says in a voice that makes her worry a great deal. “Your secrets are safe with me. I understand completely”. He grins again.

“No I – I really don’t think you do.”

“ _Sansa –”_ he persists in a tone which implies she should be more reasonable, circling her with a poor attempt at making the motion casual. “Put down that basket.”

She grips it harder, finding herself being backed into the wall, holding her basket like a shield.

“Please –” she whispers – “let me –”

“Hush, my dear,” glint of teeth, the hood of her cloak slips down around her shoulders – “You can carry on to the Godswood later, offer up your prayers for forgiveness. You know our families intend for us to be together anyway –”

He leans in, she closes her eyes, heart racing in fear and disgust and then everything happens almost too quickly for her to keep up. There is a huge thump and Ramsay goes down, she can barely gather how but he is on the floor in a puddle at her feet. He did not even have time to scream. But she does. She opens her mouth, but before the sound comes out a hand comes over it and a voice rasps in her ear. She thinks of bonfires and autumn leaves –

“Quiet girl, this is bad enough.”

She feels herself slipping, falling, the basket drops from her hands and an apple rolls into the grass, shockingly red amongst the green, and she is being caught, held tight, held in a pleasant space and she is safe.

The last thing she feels before she faints is _safe._

__x__

 

**Haha, guess who felt inspired by last night’s episode?! Honestly now he’s back I may find it easier to update this a bit more quickly. I’m sorry I’ve left it like four months for this chapter but just trust me that I’m not giving up on yous for good! :-)**


End file.
